​The chimney sweep is much in demand in August;His wife seems increasingly irritated by my phone calls.I feel like reminding her that I intend to pay him,But I don't in case she speaks ill of me to him.I remember when he came last year he had a bad back.He was cheerful and his mate did all the work.They taped newspaper over the fireplace opening,Then used a vacuum cleaner to suck up the soot.I'm always afraid the chimney will catch on fireAnd we'll be burned to death in our beds, screaming.I tell the chimney sweep a watered down version To encourage him to clean the chimney extra well.But the chimney sweep tells me I'm being daft:'You'd never burn to death,' he assures me,Rubbing his back and checking his messages.'You'd already be dead of smoke inhalation.'

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John Bleasdale is a writer. His work has appeared in The Guardian, The Independent, Il Manifesto, as well as CineVue.Com and theStudioExec.com. He has also written a number of plays, screenplays and novels.